


Finding Home

by jenny_wren



Category: Dunkirk (2017), Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-12 04:17:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11729325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_wren/pseuds/jenny_wren
Summary: Sometimes you have to go find home yourself. It helps if you have a partner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ha, I knew the internet would not let me down. At least one other person has watched Tom Hardy's character at the end of Dunkirk and, instead of thinking noble thoughts about sacrifice and fighting on even into the dark, has thought 'What this man needs is an Arthur' So hopefully there are more us out there.
> 
> This story just borrows the characters from Inception. There is no PASIV / Dreamshare industry (although given the weird Nazi science experiments I guess they could have come up with one, hmm) Spoilers for Dunkirk (which you should really go and see because it's amazing and poor Tom Hardy somehow manages to act with only his eyes showing)
> 
> Note: It wasn't until I got to the end of the first half I realized quite how much not-English there was in this. There's a translation at the bottom of the fic but hopefully it's mostly clear from context. If there's anything alarmingly wrong, please let me know. I did check it on the internet but as wonderful as the internet, it's not always entirely reliable for that sort of thing.

 

 

The sun had dropped below the horizon when they found him. They jostled him around a bit, but it was dark and already getting cold this near to the sea, so soon there was a hard shove to his back and,

“Vorwärts!”

Which, well his German might not be up to much but Farrier could figure that one out. He was quick marched in-land to where the small unit has set up camp not far out of town. They jostled him some more, but their attention was on the camp-fire and the supplies they must have found in Dunkirk, and he was heaved out of the way up onto the back of an open-topped lorry.

They left him there with what he presumed were growled threats to focus on their dinner. Farrier got the impression they were using his capture to extend their time in the field in order to enjoy the food they’d looted from abandoned French homes. He figured if he was lucky, and he stayed quiet, they’d forget all about him until morning. Which all seemed a good plan to him. He didn’t regret his decision, had already accepted the consequences but now the implications were thudding home.

So he sat there compliant and unmoving as his mind scrabbled to catch up with events – and then the soft whimper startled him.

Glancing around, he thought for a moment they’d trapped a puppy. Then another soft sound. Definitely human, and close.

There was barely a moon and the only real light was from the camp-fire so the bed of the lorry was nothing but a mass of heaped shadows. He ghosted his hands carefully over the gritty wood and found wooden crates, two leather bags of engine parts and spanners, greasy wool blankets, and finally a heap of clothes with the soft give of flesh that moaned beneath his touch.

“Please do excuse me,” he said, drawing his hands along thin limbs and a narrow chest in a suit jacket and shirt to a face with a rough half-whiskered chin, swollen shut eye and too hot skin tacky with blood.

The only reaction was another stifled whimper, as if even unconscious the body was guarded. He tried,

“Good evening,” and then “Bonsoir,” and, “Êtes-vous Français?” because the man wasn’t in uniform so he was most likely French. Farrier pressed two fingers to the soft skin of the throat. He could feel the thready pulse and a line of rough scratched up skin, that he didn’t understand and for a long moment just traced the circle of it around the throat with his fingers. Then he realized it was from where someone – the Germans, and he glared at their oblivious cheer – had slung a noose and played choking games.

“Ah petit, je suis peiné, pauvre petit.” Farrier, moving carefully, drew the poor small one up so his body was raised and his head was supported on Farrier’s lap, hoping the shift in position would ease the frantic gasp of his chest. Cupping his hand over the split lips he let fluttering huff of warm breath reassure him.

“Allez-vous bien?” Which was a rather idiotic question. The small one was obviously not alright but Farrier was not quite up to asking, _are you dying?_

Pressing his hand down on the heaving ribs and trembling belly, he was relieved to find the ribs seemed sound and there was no solid bruised hardness that meant a fatal bleed beneath the skin.

“M’sieur,” mumbled the body, the voice rough and broken. He tried to draw away but only managed to flop one arm, “S’il vous plait, s’il vous plait.”

“Ssh, je suis ici, petit, tu es en sécurité.”

“Mmph,” said the small one, growing still under his hands. Scowling at himself Farrier realized speaking in French had betrayed him into saying truly stupid things. He switched to English.

“Quiet,” he scolded. “Or you’ll get their attention again. I would have thought you’d had enough of that.”

There wasn’t much more he could do for him. Ignoring the hitching gasps his touch provoked, Farrier carefully unknotted the tie and drew it away from the raw neck and loosened the collar.

“There we go, small one.”

He rolled up the tie and tucked it in his pocket. Then he undid the small one’s cufflinks and rolled up his shirt sleeves and blew cold air at the exposed wrists to try and ease the building fever.

It wasn’t enough of course. Farrier wasn’t a medic but he’d seen men die. The small one would be well on the way by the time they reached a prison camp, and there’d be none of the nursing he’d need to recover. If the small one was going to live, he needed help now.

Farrier took off his coat and jacket, then put his flying coat back on. It was too cold to give up its leather and fur warmth. He folded his uniform jacket into a pillow and settled the small one as best he could.

Then he crawled forward to look down at their captors.

He had some German but not enough to follow a situation like this. They looked relaxed and in a good mood though as they tore at the bread and salami and, judging from the laughter and shoving, told tall tales.

He watched them until one of them picked up his focused intent and turned his way,

“And what are you looking at Englander?” he sneered in heavily-accented English.

“Please may I have some water?” he tried politely, but the man went conveniently deaf and uncomprehending. “Water,” he begged, “Wasser, bitte.”

The others all caught that and laughter rolled around the small camp. One of them staggered to his feet and grabbed up a bucket. Farrier had just enough time to work out what was about to happen and get his eyes closed before the water slopped over him.

Behind him the small one must have caught some of the flood because he shrieked and a hand scrabbled at Farrier’s back.

“Quiet,” he ordered, sliding one hand behind his back to return the trembling fingers frantic clutch.

The soldiers laughed again, and the one in charge shrugged and lazily leaned back, saying something in German that has another man standing to grab a canteen and toss it carelessly beside them.

“Danke,” said Farrier warily. He tucked the canteen behind him, between him and the small one. He didn’t trust them enough to try and drink now when all eyes were on them and they were the focus of the heated discussion.

Finally another one scrambled to his feet. His comrades shouted in agreement, and he turned towards Farrier,

“Hey,” he held out a pair of handcuffs. “I took them to use on some French dog, but maybe I’ll use them on you Englander.”

Somebody else shouted something which Farrier thought was related to the fact there was one pair of handcuffs and two of them.

The one with handcuffs snorted, grabbed Farrier’s wrist, clipped one cuff in place, then reached back to grab the small one and cuffed them together.

The German bowed to mock-applause and cheers. He patted Farrier’s cheek, “Be good, sweethearts.”

Farrier didn’t react.

The attention drifted away from them again and the Germans all settled down to getting drunk. They’d clearly liberated bottles of spirits to go with the food. Apple brandy from the smell.

Seeing that they were good and distracted, Farrier carefully looped his free arm around his unconscious companion and scuttled them both backwards along the bed away from the men and into the slight shadow cast by the cab of the lorry.

Sitting back against the cab with the small one’s back braced against his chest, Farrier could use both his hands with reasonable ease. Carefully he uncapped the canteen and took a mouthful of the stale warm water.

It tasted delicious. It was a physical effort to stop himself drinking any more. Instead he pressed the soggy edge of his flying jacket to his dry lips to try and placate the thirst he hadn’t noticed until now.

“Stop being stupid, boy,” he told himself, because sometimes he needed to hear the words out loud.

Refocusing, he dampened his handkerchief with the water and dabbed the small one’s wrists, just under his ears, and then laid it over forehead.

“Come on now, wake up.” Then he remembered himself and switched back to French. “Reveillez-vous, monsiuer.”

He couldn’t see much of the poor limp bundle sprawled across his lap. The light of the stars and the crackle of the camp fire don’t let him see any more than the shadowed planes of his face and the faint glitter of the one half-opened eye.

And he softened as he always did with French, “Ah, pauvre petit. Reveille-toi, mon pauvret, laisse moi voir tes jolis yeux.”

“’leme alone,” whined the small one.

Farrier blinked. That sounded American.

“Are you American?”

“Mal, leme alone. ‘m tired.”

“American it is. Come on my American friend, open those eyes of yours.” He wet the handkerchief and wrung it over the battered face, trying to wash away the blood without scraping the sore spots. Then he soaked the tip and pressed it to the swollen lips. He could feel the jaw work, and then the mouth moved, latching on and sucking eagerly.

“That’s better.” He tugged the handkerchief free, ignoring the protesting whine. “You able to drink a little?”

“Hurts,” moaned the small one.

“I’m sure it does. You will feel better with some water.”

“Cobb, what are you?” the body against him stiffened. “Who are you? Where?” The small one made a valiant attempt to sit up, then collapsed back against Farrier with a stuttered sob.

“Back with me are you? What do you remember?”

“I,” he shuddered, curling in on himself, “they.” He tried to lift his hand and found the chain. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Farrier agreed.

“Oh.” The small one was clearly not up on all cylinders yet because it took him a moment to parse everything before he asked again. “Who are you?”

“I’m a British pilot, I ran out of fuel and had to land.”

“That does not sound like good planning.”

“I don’t think there’s been much planning the last few days.”

“No, not really. At least nothing going to plan anyway.” He lifted his hand again and Farrier obligingly went with the motion so he could press his hand to his head.

“How sore are you?” he asked.

“I’ll live. I don’t think they hit anything vital. But my head aches like a bitch.” He lowered his hand making the cuffs rattle. “What happened here?”

“Keeping us out of trouble for the night. They’re a recon unit from what I can tell, not really set up for a prisoners. I think they’re intending to use us as an excuse for an extended jolly.” He tugged on their joined hands lightly to indicate the increasingly drunk and rowdy troops.

“Think we should stay quiet for the moment.”

“That was my plan. They’ve already worked you over. Must have used up all their aggression, so thank you for that, they were pretty decent to me.”

“They thought I was spy.”

“Oh damn.” That was not good for the small one. Farrier flew for the Internacionales, he’d seen what could happen to suspected spies. “Ah petit, je suis si navré.” He curled himself around the body beside him as if he could draw the small one inside his own body and keep him safe. “Why in the world would they think that?”

“Um,” and there was a laugh in the small one’s voice now. Was he mad? Or just so beaten down everything was suddenly funny. Farrier stroked a hand over his hair and hummed soothingly.

The small one giggled, “Um, mostly because I was noting troop movements in my pocket book.”

“Oh la vache! C’est pas vrai!” Farrier wasn’t sure whether to pull him in closer or kick him right of the lorry. What a bloody mess.

“Are you aware you’re speaking French?” asked the small one, still sounding amused.

“Tais-toi, imbecile.” Farrier shook his head. “I mean pipe down. It’s not my fault I was caught off guard, small one. Anybody would have been surprised. Are you really a spy?”

“Let’s just say I’m an interested party.”

Good God, what was Farrier supposed to do now. He knew his own future was going to be unpleasant but at least there was a future.

“Can you drink a little water,” he asked, “if I help you hold the canteen?”

The small one put his free hand on Farrier’s thigh and, arm shaking with the effort, slowly forced himself out of his slouch. Farrier was sure he was going to hear that the small one could do it his own damn self, but then there was a shake of head, a soft groan at the motion, and the small one said,

“Yes please.”

It was awkward with their cuffed hands but they managed to get some water into him.

“And now some for you,” said the small one, who clearly had too much bossy determination as well as a steel spine packed into that narrow body.

“I’ve – ”

“If you try and tell me you’ve had your share, I will hit you with the canteen. I can feel how full it is.”

“Fine, mon pauvret.”

“I _will_ hit you with the canteen. I am not a poor little thing.”

“Vrai, tu es un vicieux petit.”

“You’re speaking French again. Are you the one who hit their head?”

Farrier wanted to say no, he was just having a hard time coping with the fact he got himself taken prisoner and what he’d really like was the time to have a small breakdown please and he really could not cope with being handcuffed to somebody who was going to get themselves hung as a best option.

But he couldn’t say any of that in English and he should try and stop speaking French before he really did have a breakdown. Any minute now he’d slip into Spanish and lose any hope of coherency, he could mostly just swear in Spanish, and talk to Ground Control.

“Stop giving me lip,” he told the small vicious one. “You’re already black and blue. Now help me take a drink.”

He took a longer drink and felt a little better. They set the canteen aside. The small one began to wriggle and stretch his strained limbs.

“Fuck,” he swore. “Everything fucking hurts. Even my fucking hair.”

“Sorry,” said Farrier and bumped gently against him in commiseration.

“It’s not your fault.” He took a few deep breaths and centered himself.

Farrier almost smiled, such a very determined small one.

“So,” said the small one, his voice was rough but level, all trace of the hurt buckled down. “Introductions. I’m Arthur, and you are?”

“Farrier,” then because he’d gone soft he added, “Je m’appelle Eames. Grandmère m’appelé Eames.”

“Eames, huh.”

“After my mother’s people. They were Irish by way of France. Grandmere’s family were killed in the go round the time before last during the Siege of Paris. She married a British commercial traveler but never forgot her family were Irish nobility until they were burned out of their lands and they fled to France. That’s something of a theme for them.”

“Ah. My family were definitely not nobility, but both sides got burned out of Russian Poland, not too long after the Siege of Paris actually. Definitely a theme for us too.”

“Ah.”

They sat in silence for a long minute. Farrier wasn’t even sure why he was telling this random stranger his life history except it had been a long time since he was Eames and he wanted to be Eames for just a moment before he had to settle down to being a prisoner. And the small one was such a very determined small one.

“Well Eames, I’m sorry, I wouldn’t drag you into my mess except – ” Arthur shifted his wrist so he tugged slightly on their linked hands.

“Hey, we’re partners. Isn’t that what you Yanks say?”

“Partners. So are you ready to get out of here?”

“Quoi? I mean, what?”

“Escape. Eames they’re hanging me. Probably after several unpleasant weeks in their company. I’m sorry because at the moment you’d be okay. You’re an officer, right?”

“Officer and a gentleman, that’s me.”

“So you would be alright. And if you run with me you’ll be on their list too, but I can’t just wait for – ” he broke off

Well obviously.

“You could kill me I suppose.”

It was a serious suggestion. Farrier couldn’t do anything at all. It was the oddest sensation, as if he was suspended in aspic while that small sturdy voice just kept talking, stripping ever more of his sanity with it.

“Yes, that would probably be our best option. The Germans beat me pretty hard, they won’t be surprised if I turn up dead. I am sorry to ask you to do it, but I’m not sure I can myself. Not quickly. Not with one hand out of commission. Suffocation wouldn’t be so bad,” he added thoughtfully.

Eames came back to himself with a bang, “Si tu as con – goddamnit,” he wrenched his mind back into English, “If you keep speaking the Germans will be the least of your problems.”

“Sorry. You can wait until I pass out again,” he offered, “I probably won’t even notice.”

Eames’ whole body shook. His fingers twitched with the effort of restraining himself from slapping that sharp-edged mouth that would not stop coming out with such awfulness. Snarling viciously in Spanish he told the infuriating little bugger exactly what he thought of him.

“That did not sound polite.” Arthur sounded amused again.

Eames took several deep breaths and managed to beat down the roaring fury inside him.

“It wasn’t. You’re the one who’s – ” Eames gasped to stop because he couldn’t find the words in English to express how obscene he found the idea he should murder Arthur so he himself could go to a nice safe prison camp. Staggering back into politeness as a last resort, he finished “ – unmitigated stupidity reduced me to Spanish.”

“You swear in Spanish?”

Eames had no idea how they’d switched to discussing his regrettable lapses into foreign tongues but it was so much better than before that he ran with it,

“I was taught French by Grandmere, if I try and swear I sound like an eighty year old lady. So Spanish. But other than for a few specialized situations, my Spanish is not that good.”

“Uh huh. So in Spanish you can what, fight and fuck?”

“Well there goes any doubt you’re an American. Someone should wash your mouth out with soap.”

“You’re the one cursing me out.”

“You’re the one who,” Eames stopped then because the subject was not up for discussion, “anyway, you deserved it.”

“Fine. I’m sorry.”

“Uh huh.”

“Je suis vraiment désolé. Pardonne-moi, s’il te plait.”

“Oh alright,” said Eames, the infuriating small one did sound sorry. “You’re forgiven. Just no more. Understand?”

“Got it,” said Arthur.

They sat quietly together. Arthur’s body started to sway slightly as he gave in to his exhaustion, then jolted upright as he fought it back.

“Tell me something about yourself,” said Eames, turning so there bodies meshed together. He smiled as Arthur leaned into the support. “I don’t mean any spy things. Just something.”

“My father sat shiva for me.”

“I don’t understand.” Eames confessed, biting his lip against the hollowness in Arthur’s words, “Is that American? I don’t know what it means.”

Arthur laughed rustily, rubbing his cheek against Eames shirt, “Probably just as well. It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter now.”

That was one great big lie right there.

“Petit,” he began and placed his free hand gently on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur batted his hand aside.

“It’s fine. I have a goddaughter, you know. Philippa. Prettiest girl in the world. And bossy like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Takes after her god-father then.”

“You have known me for less than an hour,” Arthur protested and there was a lightness in his voice that suggested his laughter was finally approaching real even as the weight of his body sank deeper against Eames.

“It only took five minutes. You’re the bossiest unconscious person I’ve met. I bet your friends would agree with me too.”

“They – Okay they probably would. But that’s only cause they’re evil.”

“Sure,” Eames agreed. “It’s all on them.”

“Exactly,” murmured Arthur pleased. His head dropped heavily onto Eames’ shoulder. “Tell me something about you,” he mumbled.

“You won’t be awake to hear it, small one.”

“I am awake.”

Eames’ heart twisted at the effort it cost Arthur to lift his head. He pressed it gently back in place.

“Hush up. I’ll wake you when it’s time. Now listen, I’ve thought of the perfect song for you,” and he began to sing one of his Grandmere’s Irish airs, “ _I had a first cousin called Arthur McBride_ ,” enjoying Arthur’s soft snort at the name and the way his body grew lax in Eames’ arms until Eames was alone in the dark with their captors.

The German party slowed tailed off. Eames watched as several of them apparently passed out, until only a last few were still going. Arms around each others’ shoulders they were singing something low and melancholy.

Eames sighed softly and held the small one a little closer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Vorwärts -- Forwards  
> Bonsoir -- Good evening  
> Êtes-vous Français? -- Are you French  
> petit, je suis peiné, pauvre petit -- little one, I’m sorry, poor little one  
> Allez-vous bien? -- Are you well?  
> M’sieur -- Sir  
> S’il vous plait, s’il vous plait -- Please, please  
> je suis ici, petit, tu es en sécurité -- I’m here, little one, you’re safe  
> Wasser, bitte -- Water, please  
> Danke -- Thank you  
> Reveillez-vous, monsiuer -- Wake-up sir  
> pauvre petit -- poor little one  
> Reveille-toi, mon pauvret -- Wake up, my poor little thing  
> laisse moi voir tes jolis yeux -- Let me see your pretty eyes  
> je suis si navré -- I’m so very sorry  
> Internacionales -- The international brigades that fought the Fascists in the Spanish Civil War  
> Oh la vache! C’est pas vrai! -- Holy cow! You’re kidding!  
> Tais-toi, imbecile -- Shut up, idiot  
> mon pauvret -- my poor little thing  
> Vrai, tu es un vicieux petit -- True, you’re a vicious little thing  
> Je m’appelle Eames -- I’m called Eames  
> Grandmère m’appelé Eames -- Grandmother called me Eames  
> Quoi? -- What?  
> Je suis vraiment désolé. Pardonne-moi, s’il te plait -- I’m truly sorry. Forgive me, please
> 
> Sitting shiva is a Jewish mourning ritual. In this context it means Arthur has been disowned and is considered dead by his family.
> 
> Oh, and Arthur McBride is an Irish anti-war/recruiment song about not going to France to get shot


	2. Chapter 2

 

Finally everything was quiet. The camp-fire burned low. The Germans were sprawled around it wrapped in blankets. Laid over the enemy and their guns, Eames could see the image of long-ago scout trips back when he’d been a boy. It made him feel old and very sad.

“Wake up,” he told Arthur, patting his shoulder. “Wake it’s time to be going.”

Arthur blinked confusedly into alertness. “It’s still dark?” he croaked. His voice was worse now than before.

“Yes,” said Eames. “That’s the point.”

“Oh. I didn’t think you were actually going to… It’s a lot to ask of anybody.”

“Arthur,” said Eames warningly, because of course the stubborn small one had thought Eames was going to change his mind. He wasn’t sure if he preferred Arthur thinking he was going to be allowed to sleep right into the hands of the German Secret Police, or if he’d though Eames would be kind enough not to allow him to wake up. For the sake of his sanity Eames decided he was better not thinking about it.

“Do you want me to start speaking Spanish again?”

“Not right at this moment no. I’m keeping an option open for later though.”

“Hopefully later you won’t be so black and blue and I can just thump you when you start being an idiot.”

“Not quite what I was thinking of.” Arthur yawned and tried to stretch himself. “Oh fuck.” His legs twitched and his breathing started to pick up the breathy edge of panic. “Oh fuck. I think I under-estimated how much they bashed me around. I don’t think I can move.”

“Ah ha. You have under-estimated me. I have a secret weapon.”

“Oh.”

Eames dug into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his hip flask.

“Ohhh,” sighed Arthur.

“Let me have my hand so I can unscrew the cap.” Arthur let his cuffed arm go limp so Eames could open the fiddly cap.

“Alright,” he said, “you take it.”

Arthur took it in his free left hand and knocked some back.

“Careful it has a kick,” Eames warned as Arthur choked. Arthur elbowed him in the side in retaliation, choked some more, then took another slug of the whiskey.

“God, what is that?” his voice cracked and fizzed like a bad radio connection.

Eames took his hip flask back and passed Arthur the canteen of water, giving him control of their joined hands so he could take a mouthful.

Breathlessly Arthur leaned against him. “I wasn’t ready for that. Now my throat has no skin on the inside or on the outside. What the hell is it?”

“Pot still whiskey.”

“That was not whiskey,” said Arthur with feeling.

“You’ve been drinking the weak stuff they sell to you Yanks. This is the real thing.” Eames sniffed the open flask for the scent of it. “Here, have some more.”

“I,” Arthur flexed his legs, winced, “yeah, pass it back.” He took two quick gulps. “If you think of it as medicine, it’s not that bad.”

“You uncivilized heathen,” Eames gasped, taking the flask back and making a show of holding it protectively close.

“You should have some too.”

“No, I – ”

“You have some too. We’ve a long walk ahead of us.”

They were going to have to walk all night to get as far from the Germans as possible before they sought shelter. Eames took a slow sip, enjoying the burn, then replaced the cap.

“Saving some for latter,” he told the bossy small one.

“Probably a good idea,”

Eames slipped the flask back in his pocket and looped the canteen over his neck and shoulder. They both looked at the sleeping Germans.

“Do you need to get your pocket book back?” he asked, because that worry had crept up on him in the dark.

“My pocket book?”

“That you were taking notes in. Do you need the information, or does it have anything they shouldn’t get their hands on.” Like the names of Arthur’s friends that he’d carefully not told Eames.

“No. The information is, uh, significantly out of date.” They both snorted as they tried to contain their hysteria at how very out of date the information was. There was no helping the British Expeditionary Force anymore and France was going to fall soon enough. “If we can get back I can write most of it from memory. The specifics don’t matter anymore.”

“And your friends?”

“Nothing in there will give them away.”

Eames breathed a sigh of relief. “Alright, that makes things much easier.”

He could feel Arthur looking at him.

“What?”

“Were you really going to try and pickpocket a sleeping German officer with our hands cuffed together?”

“If required. Better odds than fighting with you over it any way.”

Arthur’s shadowed head moved in a slow nod.

“So where are we going?” he asked and then quickly clarified as Arthur’s body froze stock still. “I don’t mean your friends’ address or anything, just a general direction will do. Are we aiming for Paris?”

After a moment, as even that was too great a clue should Eames betray him, Arthur admitted, “Yes.”

“Great. I flew that way before the war, and we did a lot of runs in that direction the last few weeks to try and beat back the Germans. I’ve got the land marks down pat.”

“And that’ll help on the ground?” asked Arthur, sounding extremely unconvinced.

“Oh ye of little faith.”

“That’s me,” said Arthur. “Shall we go?”

They looked again at the sleeping Germans. There was no sign of anyone waking up. The night was quiet except one man snoring like an aggressive pig and another with the whistlely wheezy breathing of a fading steam engine. In the nearby fields there was the creep of mice and other hunted things.

Eames took a deep breath. “Alright. We’re going off the side of the lorry there, around the camp thataway, and then down that road over there, you can see it in the absence of trees. We’ll be visible until we get off down a side road, but as long as we get away clean we should have a good chance.”

Arthur sighed, “We should be realistic. I’m barely able to walk. Exactly how far do you think we’re going get? You might yet need to speak Spanish.”

“Arthur, small one, shut up,” said Eames pleasantly.

“I could probably off myself, if that’s what was giving you qualms. You could just go to sleep and when you wake up the problem will be over.”

“Ah petit.”

“Eames. My friends are in Paris. At the moment there’s nothing to link me and them. I will not take any chance of spilling my guts under the boots of the Gestapo. Do you understand me?”

Eames thought of Arthur who had a god-daughter called Philippa. Philippa who he loved dearly and saw often enough to tease about her bossiness. Eames thought about the pretty little girl and her family hiding in Paris, and broke.

“Alright.” He dragged his hands up, ignoring Arthur’s startled grunt at the tug on the handcuffs, running them through his hair and hiding his face, even if Arthur couldn’t see him in the dark. “Alright, if we get caught, I’ll make sure you won’t be telling them anything.”

“Thank you.”

“Do not thank me. Now get the hell up. I need to piss and that’s going to be fun with the handcuffs.”

“Well really Mr Eames, is now quite the time to discuss your most peculiar tastes.”

Eames was startled into a choke of laughter, “I, you, what – I will push you out this lorry,” he threatened uselessly.

“I’d take you with me.” Arthur rattled the cuff between them.

“I don’t care. Bloody hell Arthur.”

“I’ve heard all about you English,” quavered Arthur like a sixty year old spinster.

“Push you out the lorry.”

Arthur grinned back at him, teeth flashing in the half light. “Come on. Let’s go find out exactly how painful walking’s going to be.”

“Let me go first.” Eames braced his chained hand in place, and swung easily off the edge of the lorry. Then he held out his arm to help Arthur and his battered body clamber down. It hurt to hear Arthur’s quickly stifled moan as his feet hit the ground. His legs didn’t hold him and Eames had to clutch him close before he collapsed to the ground.

“Damn,” Eames muttered as Arthur swayed in his arms. “Maybe we can steal the lorry.”

Arthur’s breath hissed through his teeth, and he locked his knees and managed to take some of his own weight.

“No,” he said, teeth gritted. “If we were only making a run to Dunkirk we could risk it, but we’d never make Paris.”

“I know that.”

“And there’s every chance they won’t even look for us. It’s a good bet they’ll need to report back at first light. They’re not going to be late just to chase down two runners, well limpers, if it means having to admit they lost the limpers in the first place. Nobody knows they have me, and you’ll have died when your plane went down.” Arthur suddenly looked up at him, “But you know all this too, don’t you?”

“Uh huh,” agreed Eames because it was pretty obvious and their only real chance at escape.

“And yet you thought stealing the truck was a good idea?”

Eames shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

Arthur just breathed for a few moments, then said, “Alright, I can probably walk without screaming now, let’s go.”

“Just until we’re out of sight,” said Eames, looping his arm around Arthur’s back and taking a firm grip on his belt. It left Arthur’s arm twisted awkwardly behind him but there wasn’t much else they could do and Arthur conceded with an annoyed grunt.

Arthur’s teeth must have been clenched together as they hobbled along but it didn’t quite stop the soft hurt sounds.

It was worse, Eames judged when his left foot was bearing his weight and he wondered if Arthur’d taken a hit to the kidney. Not that there was any way of checking, or anything he could do about it if he was right.

When they reached the road and the rutted grass gave way to tarmac it got easier. The tarmac was crumbly and old, scarred with potholes they couldn’t see but it was a path that Eames could feel beneath his boots and here was just about enough light from the sliver of moon to keep them out the hedge along the side of the road. All they had to do was walk.

Eames kept them going until they were far enough around the bend of the road they wouldn’t be spotted if one of the Germans took to wandering about. If the bout of wakefulness brought enough conscientiousness to check on the prisoners they were done for whatever they did because they couldn’t leave the road and break off cross country until they had more light.

As soon as they stopped Arthur dropped to his knees, his hurting body curling in helplessly on itself, Eames tumbling down beside him. Awkwardly he trapped the canteen between his arm and his body and got the cap off and took a long drink because it was becoming clear Arthur would need him to keep going.

“Petit?” he petted Arthur’s shoulder.

“Gimme the whiskey,” snarled Arthur.

Eames slid the flask out his pocket, pressed it into the huddle of Arthur and waited patiently.

“Fucking hell,” said Arthur, slowly uncurling. “That stuff is awful. I swear it would raise the dead.”

“Them’s fighting words. That’s good Irish whiskey you’re insulting.”

“It was a compliment.”

Eames winced. Arthur did sound half dead, wrecked and exhausted.

“Well stop hogging it.” Eames took the flask back, pretended to take a slug, and replaced the cap. “On your feet, I need to piss.”

Grumbling and flinching Arthur let himself be helped back up. The logistics were easier than Eames had anticipated, as they took it in turns to have control over their joined hands, and it was dark enough to be less awkward than it could have been.

“We’re leaving this part out of the story, right?” asked Arthur.

“Absolutely.”

Decent again, they stood there in the dark. Eames listened to Arthur’s ragged breathing and couldn’t bring himself to make the small one start walking again, so eventually it was Arthur who said,

“Alright, looks like I’m not going to drop dead where I stand. Let’s get going.”

They started walking.

It didn’t go well. They kept yanking at the cuffs as their hands moved out of sync and in the dark Eames couldn’t keep track of their path and Arthur so they staggered further apart and when Arthur tripped and fell to his hands and knees, Eames had drop quickly to avoid breaking both their wrists.

“Alright this is ridiculous,” he said to Arthur who was still crumpled into the road. He got them both to their feet and then took Arthur’s hot dry hand in his.

Arthur cackled, “Is this your way of asking me to go steady Mr Eames.”

The second off-color joke set Eames wondering if he’d given his own tendencies away, or if maybe Arthur shared those tendencies and was too far on the ragged edge to keep hiding it. Eames really needed to be able to see a man’s face for that sort thing. So he just put on his very worst American accent and said,

“You stick with me baby, we’re going places.”

He was rewarded with another caw of laughter from Arthur. Eames held his hand a little tighter.

“Come on, small one, we have places to be.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m expecting nothing less than the Ritz.”

“Only the best for you, baby,” Eames teased back and started to sing, “ _Why don’t you go where fashion sits / Puttin on the Ritz_.”

It helped a bit, the singing. It gave them a rhythm to work with and a tether he could offer Arthur that required no effort from the hurt and exhausted man. Which became particularly important as Arthur began to fade.

So Eames worked through all songs he could think of that were most ridiculous for their circumstances, _Top hat, white tie and tails_ , _Dancing cheek to cheek_ , _Let’s face the music and dance_ – which made Arthur mumble something uncomplimentary about the complete lack of love, romance or indeed music to which Eames retorted that there was at least moonlight, and Arthur sniffed he wasn’t that cheap a date.

That was the last time Arthur managed to say anything and his reactions faded to huffs and snorts until there was nothing but the twitch of his fingers against Eames’ palm and then, finally, nothing at all.

With Arthur too far gone to be amused by, or even notice, the words and only following the sound of Eames’ voice, Eames switched to the Internationale for old time’s sake which kept him going as his voice dried up until he was just feeling the beat of the words as he practically carried Arthur along, hand clenched around his belt to support Arthur’s stumbling legs.

Eames didn’t stop putting one foot in front of the other, because if he did he’d never start moving again. He’d flown two sorties that day prior to the one that left him stranded in France. He was so very tired and the small one was such a heavy weight and Eames was so tired.

When the color began to dart before his eyes, Eames’ first thought, after blearily thinking it quite pretty, was that his brain replaying the image of his burning plane. It took him a disturbingly long time to realize the red glow was actually the dawn and the shadows he could see were not tricks of his exhausted mind.

Then he spotted the barn. Even after he blinked a couple of times, it didn’t disappear. In the depths of his mind where some rational thought remained other than ‘keep walking’ he recognized it for the sanctuary it was.

He tried to walk faster but his body simply refused to co-operate. His legs felt shaky and the arm carrying Arthur, that had gone numb what seemed like years ago, was suddenly back, on fire from shoulder to wrist. He couldn’t even find the energy to smile over the idea of getting this far and then collapsing in the road yards from a hiding place.

He let his eyes flutter shut for a few seconds and forced himself to muscle on in the darkness, then squinted into the growing light to check his progress.

They were nearly there when the gate in the hedgerow stopped him dead. There was no way he could clamber over that dragging Arthur with him. It would probably kill them both. He stared at the cold metal bars and everything in him wanted to disintegrate into a puddle of tears.

Shifting forward so he could at least slump against the gate, he felt it rattle against their weight. Which was when his dulled brain had the amazing flash of insight he should perhaps – open the damn gate.

“Sorry small one,” he apologized, the words hard to shape with his dry throat. He meant to say something else but there were no more words in his head. He drew back the bolt of the gate, tumbled them through, and rebolted it behind them.

The barn was more of a hay store than a real barn, but behind it they were out of the view of the road and there was a pile of hay they could sink into.

There was a fuzzy patch then. One moment Eames had been gazing at the messy heap of straw like it was the clouds of heaven, the next he was crumpled in the messy heap of straw with Arthur at his side. He was rather glad he didn’t remember falling, that would probably have hurt.

He shifted Arthur up so he was mostly resting on him rather than the hay. Eames’ own body was too busy aching to be really aware of the sharp hay and cold ground but Arthur, beaten as he was, needed better. He moved their joined hands up near their heads and wrapped his free arm around Arthur’s waist.

He wanted to say something, something about here and safety and alright but he couldn’t manage to make any sound as he worked his mouth and actual words darted beyond his reach like bright distant fireflies.

Instead he pressed his dry lips to Arthur’s bristly cheek and kissed him, trying to promise impossible things. Arthur turned his head and kissed him back, mouth to mouth, soft lips gentle with gratitude and forgiveness.

Satisfied he’d been understood, Eames curved his hand gently over the back of Arthur’s skull and tucked his head down into the crook of his neck. Then he let the world dissolve around him, the only real thing left the press of Arthur’s fever-hot body against his own.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

When he woke up the world was brighter and louder than he remembered, like the instant after his ears popped from a pressure change. The affect was heighted by the dark shadow clutching a rifle looming over him silhouetted against the lurid technicolor sky.

“Who the fuck are you, you sons of a whore?” demanded the shadow.

“Your pardon, sir,” he said while he tried to sort through his tumbling memories and work out if he was Farrier or Eames and why he was asleep in a damp field and who was next –oh, it was the small one, Arthur, he remembered now.

“Forgive us for troubling you,” he said to the irate shadow, only realizing after he started speaking that they were both using French. Eames shook his head to try and jolt his mind back into gear. “We’ll be going.”

The farmer cursed and spat at the ground. “You’ll do as I say.”

“Certainly sir. But there is no need for you to be concerned.” Eames sat up a little, shading his eyes with his free hand so he could see the man’s face. He was an old French farmer of the type who looked like they’d grown out of the ground they stood on.

“I’ll be the judge of that. You think I can’t tell that the Boche wouldn’t be glad to get their hands on you.”

“I think you don’t want to draw any attention to yourself. Even if they approve of you this time, they’ll have your name for the next time.”

The old man’s brown worn face wrinkled into a deeper scowl. Eames figured he’d scored a point there.

“Also,” he said, “I think you’ll be happy to let me pay you for your help.”

The man hacked and spit again. “Maybe, maybe not. Let’s see what you’re offering.”

Eames pulled out his leather coin wallet and popped the catch with his thumb. Taking out one of his emergency gold sovereigns he held it up it catch the light.

The old man’s face grew less disgruntled. He snatched the coin from Eames’ hand and held it close to his face, eyes almost vanishing into the creases of his face as squinted at the coin. Then he rubbed it carefully between his fingers, clacking his nails against the metal.

“It seems genuine enough,” he admitted grudgingly.

“It certainly is.”

The coin vanished into the pocket of his battered flannel coat,

“So let’s see how many more of them you have, Mr Sleeping in my Fields.”

Eames could already tell he’d to end up having to handing over the whole wallet but at the same time he knew he had to play it out or it wouldn’t work. So he picked out another three coins and held them out in the palm of his hand, tilting his wrist into the sunlight to make them gleam gold.

The old man shouldered his rifle, caught Eames’ hand in his own work rough hand and quickly picked up all three coins. He checked over each one as carefully as the first, before hiding them away in his coat.

“Alright. You convinced me not to call the Boche. Now what are you going to pay me to help you out.”

“Oh now really,” Eames tutted and protested despite knowing that they’d already reached the agreement he wanted. The farmer was going to help them. He probably wouldn’t have called the Germans down on them even if Eames had nothing to offer, but also probably wouldn’t have been as much help as he was hopefully going to be. Speaking of, Eames shifted slightly to make his cuffed hand obvious without being too obvious about, even as he continued to argue he’d more than paid a fair price.

“It may be as you say,” said the farmer. “But I’m thinking you might want that fancy bracelet off your wrist before you go any further.”

Eames immediately yanked his sleeve down to hide the cuff. “I don’t what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, sure, Mr Sleeping in my Fields.” He held out his hand. “How much for the use for my bolt cutters?”

Eames handed over another two golden pounds. The farmer didn’t study them as hard, just flipped them over to check both sides then tucked them away.

“And you’ll not be getting your friend anywhere without a pallet to carry him. I’ll sell you a wheelbarrow for a decent price.”

Another four pounds changed hands.

“Breakfast – ” the farmer started.

“Ah have done, you rogue,” said Eames and tossed him the entire wallet. The farmer chuckled and tipped out the remaining seven pounds into his hand before throwing the wallet back to Eames.

“My thanks,” said Eames bitingly.

“Don’t take on so. I’ll see you right. Now come on, let’s get your friend up to the house.” The farmer crouched down beside them, hauling Arthur’s free arm over his shoulders, and they stood up together. Arthur mumbled and his legs made faltering attempts to walk but he didn’t wake up. That was not a good sign. Eames himself was cramped up from the hard damp ground and the entire left side of his body ached as if he’d been beaten.

“You walk a long way?” asked the old man with quick assessing eyes.

“Long enough.”

The old man huffed but his voice was kinder as he asked, “You have a name, Mr Sleeps in my Fields.”

“Edouard,” said Eames, “the small one is Armand”

“As you say.”

The farmhouse was large and utilitarian but someone had gone to effort of planting a cheerful border of marigolds. The old man walked them around the side to large half-covered workshop.

“Here we go.”

Arthur wasn’t stable enough to stand, so the old man helped Eames get them both settled on the dirt floor. Then he bustled away coming back with a solid pair of bolt-cutters. He snapped the link joining them first and Eames shuddered with relief as he was finally able to step away from Arthur and properly stretch out his aching side.

“He worth all this trouble?” asked the old man.

Eames supposed from the looks of them, him perfectly fine and Arthur beat all to hell, it would appear obvious which one of them the Germans had a problem with.

He shrugged his shoulders, “Is anyone?”

“Oh ay, tell me to mind my own business why don’t you. Here, can you slide this between your wrist and the cuff.” He handed Eames a leather apron and Eames wriggled it into place to shield the skin as the old man wielded the bolt-cutters.

Two heavy snaps of the metal jaws later and the cuff fell off leaving Eames finally free. He nursed his aching wrist with his other hand and thanked the farmer profusely.

“Have done, boy. It wasn’t difficult.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.” Eames tucked the leather shield into place for Arthur and then braced his limp arm while the farmer cut him free. Checking the pale skin carefully, he found it was only bruised and scraped up so he chaffed Arthur’s arm, trying to help it uncramp.

Fishing out his hip flask he poured a little between Arthur’s slack lips and was relieved to see his eyelids flutter.

“That’s my small one, come on now.”

The old man tidied away his things and wiped his hands, “I’ll come back with your breakfast.”

Before he could leave though there was a quick patter of feet a young girl called, “Papi, Papi.”

The old man grabbed up a solid wrench and Eames quickly raised one hand to indicate his peaceful intentions. With the other hand he clutched at Arthur who jerked like he was seizing at the high, clear voice.

“Papi,” demanded the girl with all the confidence of youth. “Mémé says,” she appeared from around the work bench, saw them, and stopped abruptly. “Papi?” She sidled nervously towards her grand-father. “Papi, who are they?”

“Hush Manon,” the old man stretched out his arm towards her, “Everything is alright.”

Arthur threw himself forward, almost managing to sit up, “Pippa,” he called, and then in English, “Pippa, what’s wrong?”

“Quiet,” hissed Eames, then thought it might work better if he tried it in English. It didn’t seem to make any difference to Arthur. His eyes flew open and he stared blind and wild at the little blonde French girl.

“Pippa you got big. When did you get big?”

“What is he saying?” demanded the old man.

“He’s confused,” Eames explained hurriedly, relieved the old man didn’t seem to recognize Arthur’s stumbling words as English. “He has a, a daughter,” now was not the time for technicalities, “He’s worried about her.”

The old man scowled, but the little girl smiled,

“It’s alright Mister, don’t be scared. My papi will fix things.”

The confident happiness in her voice did the trick, Arthur said, “Bien,” and then promptly passed out against Eames’ shoulder.

“Manon, run and ask your grandmother to put some soup on.”

“Yes Papi,” she darted away.

The old man’s scowl grew. “If he’s that out of it, you need to get his fever down. Bring him along.” Apparently being forced into showing that much concern for the two strangers he found in his field was too much for him, his scowl grew ferocious and he stumped away.

Eames sighed, “Come on small one.”

Arthur was floppy-bodied, so Eames gave up trying to get him to his feet and simply looped his arms under Arthur’s dragged him out the barn. The old man was waiting by the water trough and together they stripped Arthur down and dunked him.

Eames clenched his fist in Arthur’s hair to keep his head out the water, because the small one wasn’t reacting, just floating in the cold water, his pale body dark with bruises.

“You’ve done your best,” the old man offered.

Eames scowled at him.

The old man shrugged with resignation of a man who’d seen it all before, “I’ll go and see how the soup is coming.” He shuffled away.

Eames scowled at the world in general and then at the small one in particular,

“You don’t get to give up on me now.” He shifted his grip so he could cover Arthur’s mouth and nose to stop him inhaling the water, then shoved his head under and held him there.

Of course he came up fighting, Eames should have expected that from his small vicious one. In fact, as he struggled to stop Arthur drowning himself or banging his poor battered body up against the sides of the metal trough, Arthur managed to slam the heel of his hand into Eames’ cheekbone.

“Bloody hell,” he swore, “Worse than the Germans you are.”

Arthur sat up in his watery coffin, chest heaving. “What the hell?” he sputtered, hands still fighting with invisible enemies.

“Back with me small one?”

“Cobb? What? Wait.” Arthur stopped panicking and blinked a couple of time. Then he looked directly at Eames, his eyes were almost clear of their fever light. “Was it really necessary to half-drown me, Mr Eames?”

“Shut up, or I’ll be drowning you for real.” He stretched out and smoothed Arthur’s dripping hair.

“Tough guy,” Arthur accused.

“That’s me. Now can you put on your company manners? We have a farmer to convince we’re harmless fellow men who do not deserve to be handed over to the Germans.”

“Got you.” Arthur’s face tightened and when the old man reappeared carrying a ragged towel and a set of old overalls and coats for them, he was profuse in his thanks. The old man just looked more suspicious.

Getting him dried and dressed knocked all the false energy out of Arthur. Eames carried him over to a patch of sunshine and propped him up against the farmhouse wall.  The small one smiled listlessly at him,

“I’m okay,” he said.

“Bloody liar.”

Fortunately though, as it turned out, Arthur was also a bloody excellent spy, even if he was half-dead.

The farmer’s wife came out the house scowling with a bowl of soup to shove at the sick stranger. Arthur blinked at her and apologized for the trouble in soft French, while ducking his head and smiling shyly.

She fell hard, cooing over him like he was a lost chick. There was no more expecting Arthur to feed himself, and no chance of Eames getting close enough to help him. She crouched down beside him and fed him one careful spoonful after another. The granddaughter handed Eames the mug of soup she’d studiously carried over to him, together with a hunk of bread, but then flitted over to the main attraction, hiding behind her grandmother to peek out at Arthur from under her lashes.

Eames and the old man shared exasperated glances.

“Come with me.”

So Eames followed him back into the workshop and together they wrestled out a large, flat not really wheelbarrow, more sort of a wheeled pallet. Eames practiced pushing, it took a bit to get it going but it was well-made and well-balanced.

“This is perfect, thank you.”

The old man scowled. “Just get going before the wife decides to adopt him.”

Eames didn’t want to say anything but he thought Arthur might already have been adopted. When the old woman saw the ratty wheel-pallet, she set up a furious scold, and imperiously order the old man to fetch a mattress. The old man glared at her, glared harder at Eames when he couldn’t quite hide and his smile, threw his hands in the air, appealed to all the saints – and went to fetch the mattress.

The old lady bustled back into the house and came out with a bowl of water, shaving soap and a sharp-bladed razor.

“Thank you,” murmured Arthur sweetly, “but I don’t think I’m strong enough.” He lifted a perceptibly shaking hand. “Perhaps Eames…”

“Pah,” said the old woman, “I’m not a letting a clumsy one like him near you.”

Eames pulled an insulted face behind her back for the joy of seeing Arthur smile.

Arthur sighed and closed his eyes soaked in her fussing. After he was tidied to her satisfaction she condescended to pass Eames the razor so he could shave his own face. Manon watched the operation with fascinated eyes and giggled when Eames winked at her.

The old man grumbled out the house hauling the mattress with him and shoved it Eames. It was a ragged flattened canvas tick, stuffed with musty straw. Eames plumped it up as best he could and spread it out over the pallet. The old man came back with a hammer and a mouthful of nails, to pin it in place.

“Thank you,” said Eames, “so many thank yous,” because this was more than he had ever expected.

“Humph,” said the old woman. “Give me your canteen and I’ll fill it with water for you. Come along Manon.” After they had gone back inside the house the old man said,

“It was our son’s mattress.”

“Ah.” And now Eames knew where their overalls and coats had come from. He had wondered because they’d fitted him and he was taller than the old man.

“He’s off who knows where with army. Been gone since last year. The letters stopped coming bout three months ago. The daughter-in-law, she couldn’t take it any longer, went off to find him. Who knows where she is.”

“I see.”

The old man glared at the ground. “Here,” he said abruptly. He yanked a pair of work gloves from his pockets and shoved them at Eames.

Eames looked at them.

“Take them. Your gentleman hands will never take pushing the barrow.”

Eames had his flying gloves, of course, but if they ran into a German patrol they’d make him stand out as if he’d set off a flare gun. He looked at the old man, it seemed as if one more thank you would send him right over the edge.

“What’s your son going to say when he comes home to find you’ve given away his gloves?”

The old man almost smiled, “I remain hopeful I’ll find out, what else can you do.”

Eames tugged on the gloves. The old man went into the house to find his wife.

Arthur smiled at Eames as crouched beside him, but his eyes were already having trouble focusing. Eames took off a glove and pressed his hand to Arthur’s forehead brushing the floppy fringe out the way, and yes, his skin was already growing hot.

“We need to get moving. I’m going to carry you over to the wheel-pallet cart thing.”

The smile twisted into a scowl. With his wet hair Arthur looked like a disgruntled cat, Eames wanted to pet him and see if he could make him purr.

“I can manage it on my own.”

“Sure you can,” agreed Eames, annoyed that he couldn’t manage to let disgruntled cat Arthur just fall flat on his face when he tried. Instead he gave Arthur a supportive arm and was annoyed all over again when Arthur’s shoulders slumped and murmured a grateful thank you.

In revenge he swept Arthur up bridal style, carried him the few paces to the cart and plunked him down. Arthur squirmed,

“Ouch,” he said sourly as the straw filling jabbed at him. Eames peeled him up into sitting position with one arm, and beat the straw into submission with the other, then laid him back down.

“Better?”

“My hero.” Arthur struggled up onto one elbow and somehow found enough energy to grin at him, even if his eyes couldn’t quite focus.

Eames glowered back, “I’m going to thump you when you’re better.”

Arthur grinned brighter.

The old woman shuffled out the house with a full canteen and a paper bag, which Manon excitedly told them contained, bread, sausage and tomatoes.

“And here,” the old woman held out a few dirty ragged notes. “My husband told me he took all your gold. We can afford to give you a few francs.”

By force of will Eames managed not to guilty clutch at the pocket he’d tucked his second lot of emergency gold sovereigns.

“Really ma’am,” he began.

“No.” She shook her head sharply. “It is not up for discussion.”

Eames glanced behind her at her husband, who shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

“Then thank you very much madame.” He bowed courtly over her hand and was unsurprised when it didn’t impress her. She bustled over to Arthur,

“And you my little rabbit, you keep an eye on this one.”

“Naturally, madame.” Arthur smiled smugly at Eames. Eames would have appreciated it more if it wasn’t costing Arthur so much obvious effort.

“Thank you both for your help. Goodbye.” It was one of those times he was glad he was speaking French. English had no easy way to say Adieu.

Manon ran over to stare wistfully up at the pallet, “Goodbye Mr Armand.” She wasn’t quite tall enough to see properly over the edge, so Arthur leaned forward. Eames quickly grabbed his shoulder,

“Stop, if you bend over you’re going to fall right off. Here.” He carefully picked the little girl up and held her in place so she could kiss Arthur’s cheek.

“Goodbye Manon. Be good for your grandparents.”

“Goodbye Mr Armand.”

Eames lifted her back up, “No kiss for me?” he wheedled and was charmed when she flung her arms around his neck.

“Goodbye Mr Edouard. Look after Mr Armand.”

“Of course sweetheart.” He set her back on her feet, and bashfulness abruptly overcame her and she scurried to hide behind her grandmother’s skirts.

“Goodbye,” he said again, “and thank you.”

“Oh get going,” said the old woman, “we have better things to do than stand around talking all day.”

Eames shoved the cart to get it going and Arthur yelped as he jolted in place.

“Serves you right,” said Eames, cheerfully taking advantage of Arthur’s inability to swear at him with little ears listening. He couldn’t see behind him, but he could tell the little family was waving them off because Arthur twisted awkwardly around to wave back. He had a smile fixed in place, but his skin had gone white and sweat broke out over his face with the strain.

Eames started to sing _La Marseillaise_. A startled grin broken over Arthur’s pained face.

“Good god, you can’t sing that.” The wavers-off must have disappeared behind the twist of the hedgerow because Arthur sank back on the makeshift bed with a sigh of relief. “We’ll be shot before we make five miles.”

“No?” Eames asked innocently, and switched the lyrics for _L’ Internationale_.

“That’s even worse.”

Eames tried _A las barricadas_ and was gratified when it made Arthur laugh.

“I don’t even understand most of those lyrics – it is Spanish, right? – but I’m convinced it will just get us shot even faster.”

“There were a lot of people shooting at me in Spain, that is true.”

“Yeah?” said Arthur. “Tell me about it.”

So, secure in the knowledge Arthur wasn’t going to remember any of it, Eames told him about Spain, the heat, the flies, and the blood. He told Arthur about the rotten food, the tight exhaustion, and the raucous breaks. About learning to fly for your life, the tricks, and the rolls, locking on a target and the sick judder of a downed plane.

Even in French though he couldn’t find the words to explain how wrong it was that something as pure and clear as a sunrise sky should be filled with bullets and flames and the screams of dying planes.

“I’ll take you up,” he told Arthur, who lay unresponsive, his only movement when the cart jolted his limp body, the only sign he was still alive his thick congested breathing. “We’ll go up and you can see for yourself. Then you’ll understand.”

Arthur didn’t say anything. Eames felt very tired and not just in body. He glanced up at the sun high in the sky and down at their poor shrunken shadows. It must be close to midday, although he couldn’t be sure because his unwound watch had stopped, so he decided to stop.

He didn’t dare sit down for fear or being unable to persuade his worn body to rise, so he leaned against the cart and gulped some of the water to ease his talked-out throat. Then broke up the bread and salami and took a bite.

Eames had intended to be restrained, to save enough to spread out over the days it would take them to reach Paris, but as the food hit his stomach he realized he was ravenous. He could barely chew fast enough to satisfy the demands of his belly, only managing to slow down when the sudden influx of food started to twist uneasily inside him and he forced himself to stop before he threw up. That took almost more self-control than he could summon, if there had been more food he might not have managed it, but he knew he couldn’t afford the waste. So he settled for sucking the rich sausage grease and sharp tomato juice from his fingers and then wrapped up the remains of the food, hiding away the temptation.

Arthur had remained curled up on the tick mattress, still limp and unresponsive. His skin was hot and dry and he didn’t react when Eames wet lips with a little of their water. Eames wet his handkerchief and wiped down the scowling face, trying to wipe away the lines of stress and pain.

“Come on small one. Don’t give up on me now.”

Arthur’s head turned into his petting hands. His eyes failed to open, but his tongue slipped out to lick his lips. Eames wrang out his handkerchief letting the drops spatter across Arthur’s face. One hand made a vague swiping gesture and he greedily sucked down the water.

Eames glanced again at the sky, torn between the conflicting need to help Arthur now, and the need to get to Paris where they would be safe and Arthur had a real chance at recovery. Reluctantly he decided he couldn’t waste the daylight, tonight would be soon enough to try and get more water into Arthur.

Then it was back to the long slog. Eames was following his nose mostly, he was pretty good at navigating country he’d flown over a time or two, and checking in whenever he passed through a tiny village that he was still headed towards Paris. Nobody asked him what he was doing – they didn’t even seem to want to even speak to him, too much chance of drawing his bad luck down on them – but gave him a nod of the head, or a jerk of a thumb to signal direction.

Eames kept his head down and kept on pushing the cart along.

He didn’t stop after his brief lunch because he knew if he did he wouldn’t be able to force his tired body to start again and the day gradually took on the cast of a nightmare as the world narrowed down to endless rutted roads edged by too-green hedges as the too-bright sun hammering down on him.

Eames kept his head down and kept on pushing the cart along.

Slowly, slowly, their shadows lengthened and the hot sun faded. Eames continued to put one booted foot in front of the other. He wasn’t sure if he could stop if he actually wanted to, he had no decision making processes left. A slight breeze rustled through the leaves. Arthur babbled nonsense about black cats.

Eames kept his head down and kept on pushing the cart along.

And then abruptly he found himself falling as his foot skidded out from under him on a stone he hadn’t seen in the dark. So dog-tired he could only slump where he’d fallen. Hands and knees stinging from impact were all that stopped him crashing straight into sleep.

The shock faded and sleep lapped at the edges of his conscious and he would have slipped under, except Arthur, perhaps disturbed by the sudden lack of movement, said something loud and angry about black cats.

“What is it with you and black cats?” Eames muttered, and the curiosity had him crawling forward to clutch at the cart and use it to haul himself to his feet. Swaying on his worn-numb legs he cudgeled his exhausted brain into gear.

It was too risky to spend the night with the cart, they’d be too vulnerable and he was too tired to be sure an approach would wake him. So that meant getting Arthur down. The whole process was unfortunately less than graceful – because Eames dropped him.

He had intended to gently draw Arthur down, but the shift in weight knocked Eames off-balance and he couldn’t compensate with his stiff-jointed legs, so he landed sitting on the road, with Arthur sprawled across his lap.

Eames started to laugh, and laugh, and laugh. He was whooping for breath and still laughing, when suddenly he couldn’t breathe and tipped forward to clutch at Arthur as panic spiraled, tightening around his seizing chest.

Arthur grunted, flailed his legs, wrangled one arm lose – and slammed his hand into Eames’ mouth and nose. The bright blaze of pain shocked some sense back into him and Eames dropped flat on his back in the road as hot blood trickled down his lip. He was still laughing, but softly now, the hysteria jolted right out of him. The sky was very dark, the stars bright pin pricks of light, impossibly distant, impossibly perfect.

Then Eames had to sit up because he was starting to choke on the blood running down his throat from his battered nose.

“Tu,” he told Arthur fondly, “es un menace.”

The snarl on Arthur’s face faltered and his head tilted to one side as he listened intently. Eames remembered he was speaking to an American and that Arthur probably wasn’t up to translating much at that point.

“You are a menace,” he repeated. “A complete menace.”

Arthur’s forehead wrinkled up in the effort of comprehension.

“And why you had to wake up now, when the day’s walk is done and it is time for sleep?” But of course he knew the night air had cooled the fever and being dropped had startled Arthur awake. “Now settle down small one. I’m the one who’s dragged your sorry carcass across half of France. You don’t get to black both my eyes because you’ve no idea what’s going on.”

Arthur blinked slowly, like an engine steadily ticking over and then it caught.

“The French pilot?” he checked cautiously.

“British, please,” said Eames. “The Spitfire’s the most elegant plane to ever take to the skies.” Again he mourned his beautiful lady lost to flames.

Another slow blink. Arthur’s eyes were focused on him now, crinkled with curiosity, “Do you want elegant in a fighter plane?”

Eames scowled at the heresy. “Why on earth wouldn’t you?” Commonsense asserted itself enough that he felt compelled to add,

“A bigger fuel tank would be handy.” That was undeniable given his current situation. “And a Hurricane is about ten times easier to hit anything with.” Also true unfortunately. “But who wants easy?” He loved his high-strung plane that needed such delicate handling. There was no challenge in a Hurricane, not like his finicky darling.

Arthur smiled and his head dropped tiredly.

“Oh no,” said Eames. “You’re staying awake long enough for me to get some water into you, small one.”

He dragged Arthur over and man-handled him until he was propped up his back to Eames’ chest.

“Lemme me sleep,” slurred Arthur, “Tired.”

“Don’t know why. You’ve done nothing but sleep all day while I hauled you across France. Here.” Eames pressed his hip flask to Arthur’s mouth, allowing the liquid trickle inside. Arthur’s throat worked as he swallowed automatically, and then he was spluttering.

“That,” he said after a harsh cough to clear his throat, “is not water. That is your evil not-whiskey.”

“Well remembered. Now have some more.” Eames ruthlessly titled the flask and Arthur spluttered through another mouthful.

“You are not a nice man.”

“This has often been observed. Want some more?”

“No, but let me have some anyway.”

After that Arthur obediently drank as much water as Eames could give him, and even ate a little bread although the chewing tired him so much Eames had to sop the bread with water for him to swallow it down.

After relieving themselves they crawled away across the road. Eames forced back some of the roadside hedge so they could tuck themselves into the safety of leaves and branches. Arthur’s skin was cold to touch even still covered in fever sweat. Eames undid both their coats, pulling Arthur in against his chest and wrapping the edges of their coats around them both.

“Eames,” said Arthur quietly into the side of his throat. “I’m not getting better.”

“Well of course you’re not,” said Eames. “You haven’t had the chance. Some idiot’s been dragging you across half the country. We’ll get you home and you’ll soon feel better.”

“Ah, thank you. But we both know that’s not true. My body’s one big ache and it feels like I’m on fire. We’re at least two days, probably three, from Paris. I’m not going to make it.”

“You don’t know that.”

Arthur laughed rustily, “Eames. Listen to me. My friends. Mallorie is a singer at the Le Chat Noir.”

“Aha,” Eames beamed with relief. “Hence all the fuss about black cats, see you weren’t even delirious.”

“Listen to me. Le Chat Noir. Off the Rue d’Orsel in Montmartre.”

“Uh-huh.” Eames petted the sweat soaked hair trying to soothe Arthur’s agitation and the growing tremble in his limbs. “I’ll get you there even if you do pass out on me. Don’t worry. I’ll get you home.”

“Not me. You. If you go there they’ll help you.”

“Arthur.”

“Listen to me. I haven’t much time, everything’s fuzzing over again. Listen to me. I won’t make it to Paris, and even if that weren’t true, _we’re_ not going to make it to Paris. It’s too far, too long, we’ll be caught. One man could sneak through. Two men and that cart-thing haven’t a chance. Particularly not when one of the men is a half off his head American likely to start spewing English at the drop of a hat. It’s stupid to risk all that for a man who’s already dead.”

“Alright. I agree that a two day forced march is a risk with you as ill as you are. So we can stop if you like. Find a friendly farmer and hole up til you’re better.”

“God no,” Arthur protested frantically. “Are you crazy?” He tried to rear back so he could glare down at Eames but was too weak to pull off the maneuver. Eames’ conscience stabbed at him.

“I think we should stop.”

“No,” said Arthur. “No. We’ll get caught and… no.”

Eames wavered. As much as Arthur did need rest and nursing, he needed not to get caught by the Germans more.

“Okay, okay. Calm down. We’ll stick with Plan A.”

“You’re not listening to me. You need to leave me here and get to Paris. If you tell my friends what happened they’ll help you get out back to Britain.”

Eames laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of that. “I tell your friends I left you to die in a ditch and I won’t live out the day.”

“Don’t tell them that part,” said Arthur scornfully. “Tell ‘em I’m dead. It will be true by the time you get there. Tell Mal I died quick and in no pain, but tell Dom I was knocked on the head and never recovered consciousness. They’ll believe you then.”

“I’m impressed you have enough of your wits about you to be that devious. But it doesn’t matter because I’m not leaving you.”

“It’s too chancy.”

“I am not leaving you. If you weren’t about to pass out on me I’d shake you for even suggesting it.”

“But the risk…”

“If I wanted easy I’d stay home with my feet up by the fire.

“I still might not make it. It could all be for nothing.”

“Vraiment, mais je garde espoir.” Eames kissed Arthur’s forehead. “Je garde espoir parce que qu’y a-t-il d’autre.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh come on, you’re not going to make me say that in English.” There were limits.

“What?” Arthur’s head twisted. “I don’t understand. Please.” In his confusion he tried to pull away.

“Sssh, I’m sorry.” Eames stroked one hand down his back trying to soothe his distress. “I’m sorry small one. I said, that was true, but I’ll keep hoping. I’ll keep hoping because what else is there.”

“Mmph,” said Arthur. Close as they were Eames felt him call on the last of his draining strength. His fists clenched in Eames’ shirt and he said quite distinctly, “Me too.”

And that was it. Arthur’s body sagged into his as he tumbled into unconsciousness.

Eames sighed and kissed the patch of skin nearest him. “Je garde espoir, just wish it wasn’t such bloody hard work. Hauling you across half of France is easy in comparison.”

Arthur didn’t say anything at all. There was only his snuffly breath soft against Eames’ neck so Eames held the limp body close and let sleep steam-roll over him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vraiment, mais je garde espoir - True, but I’ll keep hoping (or I remain hopeful / I still have hope)  
> Je garde espoir parce que qu’y a-t-il d’autre - I’ll keep hoping because what else is there  
> Je garde espoir – I’ll keep hoping


	4. Chapter 4

 

The next morning he couldn’t rouse Arthur. He tried talking, and maybe a little shouting and swearing when he started to get frustrated, and maybe a little scared. He tried dribbling whiskey into Arthur’s mouth. He tried washing Arthur’s face with the tepid water he couldn’t really afford to spare. Bracing himself, he slapped him once, quick and sharp.

That got Arthur’s eyes open and rolling in his head, but there was no recognition or life in his gaze.

Eames looked down at his hands until he felt Arthur’s body wilt and he could be sure the blank accusing stare was gone.

Getting up took more effort than he thought it should. His head was fuzzy and his throat ached like fire. He hadn’t thought he’d talked that much yesterday. He was usually good at talking too much.

“Je garde espoir,” he said, although by this point it was more stubbornness than actual hope. He was getting the small one home and that was that.

Levering Arthur onto the cart was disturbingly like moving a dead body that hadn’t had time to grow stiff. He really didn’t want to replay every single one of Spanish memories. It was bad enough being captured again.

The exertion made him dizzy and he had to sit down for a bit until he’d steadied himself. He could have stayed there for a long time, until they both slipped away, but no, he had promised he’d get Arthur home, so he clawed his way up the cart until he was on his feet, and, shoving forward right from his boots, managed to force the whole contraption back into motion.

He couldn’t managed anything as cheerful as signing so he recited Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell to himself instead. Not cheerful but terribly alive. Grandmere had not approved of Rimbaud, but she’d approved of English poets even less, scorning Kipling as if he had personally burned down Ireland himself. So Rimbaud had been tolerated as an antidote when she had him memorize poetry in the holidays. Eames had always been careful not to let a hint of Rimbaud slip out at school, even when they sniggered over wilder parts of Suetonius, but he figured Arthur wouldn’t mind too much.

Worry about Arthur though couldn’t be held down. They were just too far away from Paris. Arthur needed a real bed, and actual nursing. Eames kept his eyes open whenever they passed by a house or farm, looking for one that seemed hopeful. When the frantic barking of her dogs brought out a fiercely sensible older lady, he decided it was worth a shot.

Smiling his best smile, he waved and greeted her in cheerful French.

She quietened the dogs and walked up to her gate, “Good morning. No need to ask how your day is going.”

“It could be better,” Eames agreed. “May I beg some water from you?”

“Pass me your canteen.”

Eames handed it over. The woman retreated back into her house, pausing to release the dogs who rushed forward to jump up at the gate barking wildly. They were brindle-colored, shaggy furred sheep dogs and despite their leaping about and flashing teeth, Eames was reasonably sure a firm enough _Assis!_ would have them sitting quietly. Though just at the moment he was so worn out he didn’t think he could have taken on his grandmother’s wheezing pug.

The woman reappeared. She put a large glass of water down on the fence post and held the canteen out to him over the gate.

“Thank you.” It was reassuringly heavy again. Eames tucked the canteen in beside Arthur, running his hand over Arthur’s forehead as he did so, and was relieved when Arthur pushed slightly into the contact.

“Drink your water,” said the woman, “You’ll do him no good if you collapse.”

Eames drank the water. It was sharp and cold against his rough throat. He knew he should start trying to charm the woman into letting them rest for a bit. For all Arthur didn’t want to delay the journey and risk getting scooped back up by the Germans, if they both collapsed in the middle of the road the point was going to be moot.

He couldn’t quite manage to get his sore throat and fuzzy brain to come up with anything though so he ducked his head slightly and brought out his best smile. The woman smiled back and held out a full paper bag that had the dogs whuffling hopefully.

“Thank you,” said Eames, “I can pay you something.”

“No,” said the woman with a weary shake of her head. “I think I’d rather give it away while I still have option.”

There was probably something comforting or consoling you could to say to that but Eames, who’d seen before the way armies cannibalized the ground they moved through, had no idea what it might be. So he just thanked her again.

She waved his thanks away with one hand, “It is nothing. You are a good man.” She looked across at Arthur and his grey, haggard skin blotched with bruises, and scowled, “I don’t hold with Jews dirtying up the place but it’s not right to do that to a body.” She smiled at Eames, “He should have got out of here weeks ago. Putting you to all this trouble.” She shook her head in disapproval.

Coming up with a response to that was utterly beyond Eames. Leaving Arthur in her vicinity any longer was clearly unacceptable.

“Well thank you for your help ma’am. We must be off.” He shoved at the cart to get it going. It would have been nice to hand her back her food and tell her it wasn’t needed, but, well, it was needed. Pride would only get you killed faster but Eames still smarted on Arthur’s behalf.

It gave him the energy to get going again, which was something, and he made good time until exhaustion washed away the heat of his anger. While nobody could claim Britain was a bastion of brotherhood, it was at least better than France where half the country still hated Dreyfus for having the bad taste to be innocent.

“People can be very strange,” he said to Arthur, “Have you noticed this?”

Arthur didn’t say anything but Eames was sure his small one had plenty of experience of people being strange. He stopped to let Arthur drink some water, which, given Arthur wasn’t co-operating, mostly involved spilling water all over Arthur’s face, but water was cooling wasn’t it, and it left Arthur looking less dead, so that was better than nothing at any rate. Eames mostly wanted to lie down and cry but he didn’t have the energy.

After speaking to the woman he didn’t feel like stopping again so he kept grimly slogging away. Hope had shriveled down to nothing, but he simply refused to give up on getting Arthur home. He was so blinkered on keeping on going, in fact, that it took longer than it should have to realize they had passed through the German lines.

He had no idea when they’d made it through the lines, it might even have been the day before, or possibly the German lines had flowed past them. It made sense when he thought about it. The Germans had powered across the country, but then moved North to grind the Allied armies up against the sea at Dunkirk. Their lines must be all over the place, the Germans themselves probably didn’t even know for sure.

But the two of them had definitely made it through. The track Eames had been following tipped him out into a bigger road that suddenly had traffic, a battered truck barreling through, and then an old car ghosting along on string and baling wire. Instead of trying to get back onto the side roads Eames followed the road, and was over-taken by three more cars and a horse drawn cart piled up with furniture and children who waved cheerfully at him as they went past, until he arrived at a bigger village and a decent main road that must lead straight to Paris.

The road was crammed with people, and vehicles, and horses. The middle of the road had the trucks, lorries, and cars rumbling along, while either side horses, people, and carts struggled along. The village itself seemed deserted except for the madly barking yard dogs but Eames was sure the houses either side of the road had suspicious watchers peeking through the curtains. The great flood of people didn’t show many signs of noticing they were passing through a village, they just kept trudging on.

Eames knew exactly how they felt.

He nearly pushed himself out into the flow, and then reconsidered. There was a water fountain where the roads crossed. A few of those on foot were stopping to drink as they passed by, and Eames was sure some of the vehicles would also stop.

So he perched himself on the wall and settled Arthur beside him, pillowing Arthur’s head against his thigh and covering him with his jacket. With a tree to rest his back against, Eames also maybe dozed off for a bit, or possibly a bit longer than that. He poked at the food the woman had given him and broke the bread into small pieces that he swallowed down with the help of water, but he didn’t feel hungry enough for anything more.

Arthur’s head was in his lap and he absently started to comb his fingers through the dark hair. Arthur had obviously slicked his hair down with some sort of cream before he set out however many days ago it was and the cream had picked up seemingly every speck dust available so that his hair was gritty with it. Eames pulled out his pocket comb and started to draw away the dust. Arthur didn’t wake up but the cross little frown between his brows faded and his face softened into sleep.

Despite the fascination of watching his fierce little one relax like a cat snoozing in the sunshine, Eames kept an eye on the traffic.

The first car that stopped was gleaming and polished, far too smart for its location. The driver got out and fetched water for the elegant lady and gentleman inside. The driver eyed Eames much like Eames reckoned he’d eyed the woman’s dogs, wary but confident he could deal with them if required. Given how he felt just at that moment Eames reckoned the driver was probably right. The lady and gentleman didn’t go to the bother of looking at them at all. Eames didn’t go to the bother of asking for a lift.

The next car almost stopped, but the nervy driver saw Eames, yanked on the wheel and skidded on.

“We didn’t want a lift with him anyway, did we?” he said to Arthur, “He’ll have that car in a ditch before he’s half way there.

Arthur didn’t say anything.

“You’re not a very satisfying conversationalist are you?”

Arthur still didn’t say anything.

“Ah well, you’re pretty enough to make up for it.” It had been Arthur’s fierce determination that had attracted Eames originally but now with light and time he could see the knife-sharp edge was matched by the beauty of gleaming steel.

He ran his finger along one severe cheekbone.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you home somehow.”

Finally an open-backed truck rattled into the square and three aggressively confident young men clambered out. They side-eyed him, wrote him off, and then jostled each other around the fountain, one of them ending up with a faceful of water.

Eames could work with that. He smiled,

“Good afternoon. We’re looking for a lift into Paris?”

The cockiest one laughed, “So is everyone, my friend, so is everyone.” They turned away back to their truck.

“Ah, I’d be willing to offer money for the petrol.”

As if on a string, they all slowly turned back towards to him.

“Petrol money you say?”

Eames pulled out the few ratty notes the old woman had given him, deliberately fluttering them so there looked to be more of them than there actually were. He tucked what seemed like most of the notes back into his pocket and held out the rest,

“Seems a fair price, right?”

The three young man looked at each other, looked around at the crowd tramping past them, and then back at each other.

“Yeah sure, we’ll give you a lift to Paris,” said the leader, and his hands actually curled into fists. God, they would be so incredibly bad at poker, Eames could almost hear their thoughts they were shouting them so loud.

They’d taken the bait of the extra money, figured fighting for it in front of the other refugees was too risky (definitely amateurs, nobody in the beaten-down trail of humanity trudging past them would step in – not unless things descended into a full scale riot) and decided a nice Parisian back alley was just the place for a little robbery with violence.

To manage that, of course, they had to get them to Paris, so they were lovely and helpful in carrying Arthur over to the back of the truck and finding space among the furniture and food cans for him to lie down. Eames limped after them. He would have pretended to be weaker than he was but since that would have required falling over which he felt was taking things a bit far.

Instead he settled himself at the very back of the truck, sitting wedged between an armoire and a mattress and pulled Arthur up so he was lying with his head against his chest. The young men grinned like toothy wolves-in-training (Eames had the peculiar urge to give them tips. They were going to need sharpen up fast if they didn’t want to get themselves shot, that old farmer would already be burying them back behind his barn) and clambered into the cab.

The truck rattled along. Eames dozed fitfully, bounced awake as they hit ruts and pot holes. Slowly the road grew wider, smoother and busier as cars and trucks cluttered up both sides of the road. The houses at the side of road grew more frequent, and in bigger clusters until, as they drained into Paris, there was just a continuous run of houses. Paris proper shook Eames fully awake and even Arthur groaned as they jostled over cobbles, the road growing narrow again and the houses grew taller as the light dimmed in the sky.

Eames waited until the traffic snarled up in the tiny streets, and dropped heavily off the back of the truck, taking Arthur with him. Yanking Arthur after him, he ducked them behind a set of large municipal steel bins and waited for the traffic to ease and the truck to pull away. Eames entertained himself with the thought of the young wolves expressions when they realized their prey had escaped them and tried not to think about how Arthur was completely limp and his skin was scorching hot.

Sacré cœur made Montmarte the easiest spot to find in Paris but trying to drag Arthur along with him was too much for Eames. He must have been sitting too long because his limbs felt all weak  and trembly, he barely had enough strength to shift himself let alone Arthur. Under his jacket Eames could feel his skin shiver despite how hot he felt.

“You,” he told Arthur, “are definitely more trouble than you’re worth.”

Arthur remained infuriatingly mute.

“Exactly my point.”

It wasn’t dark yet although the street were dim and grey with shadows. There were still people about, heads down, scurrying to get home.

Waving one arm Eames tried to flag one of them down. Eventually a stranger stopped, ducking deeper into his smart but ragged-edged grey raincoat.

“You need help or something?”

“Good evening,” said Eames, letting a heavy English accent choke his French. The stranger relaxed a little as he slotted them into the idiot English tourists category, “Please can you help me. My friend is very drunk and we need to get back to Rue d’Orsel before we’re late for dinner, or our wives will never shut up about it.”

The stranger did a bad job of hiding his smile. “Well we can’t have that. Come on, it’s not that far out of my way.” He lifted Arthur’s arm up over his own shoulders and wrapped his arm around Arthur’s waist and got a good grip on his belt. Locking his knees, he hefted Arthur’s weight away from Eames and took it himself.

Eames staggered under the sudden release, feeling so light it was as if he might float away.

“Sure,” said the stranger, “ _your friend_ is the one who’s drunk.”

“Absolutely, I’m perfectly sober.” It was too hard to try and slur his words while speaking French badly but the stranger wasn’t much of a critic. He just snorted,

“Whatever you say.”

Possibly the way Eames couldn’t seem to stop heeling over like a plane with a busted aileron added verisimilitude to the story. Perhaps he had busted an aileron, walking in a straight line was taking far more concentration than it normally did. It would help if his head didn’t feel so stuffed up.

Finally the stranger said,

“Well, here we are.” He propped Arthur up against a helpful wall – then had to catch him quickly before Arthur slid down and hit the pavement.

“I think,” he said, “that your wives are not going to be very happy.”

“They are never happy,” said Eames dolefully, imagining the two unfortunate long-suffering ladies. He hooked an arm around Arthur so the stranger could step back. “Thank you for all your help. And here, for your trouble.”

“Thank you,” the stranger pocketed the francs. “Good luck with your wives.”

“We’ll need it.”

The stranger strode off. Eames looked up at the Le Chat Noir.

It didn’t look much, the way night clubs don’t until the sky is black and the glinty, gaudy lights can outshine the pale stars. Eames man-handled Arthur along, slipping between the edges of the buildings, and wasn’t surprised when the tiny alley opened up into a small courtyard. The back door of club was cracked open and there were steel cages packed with rubbish, crates full of glass bottles stacked high, and one steel bin heavy with the stench of rotting food which suggested there were pigs being fed somewhere. A cast iron set of steps led up to a tiny balcony crammed with pots full of brightly-colored flowers.

Eames tilted his head, and yelled in English, “Hey, hey, anybody home?”

There was a rustle of movement from inside the upper apartment but nobody came out.

“Hey, you in there. I found something of yours. You want it back?”

Still nothing.

“I can wait out here all night.”

The door onto the balcony slammed open,

“Look, now is not a good time,” shouted a tall, broad, blond man, who looked so American it was frankly alarming. He glared down at Eames, then his eyes skipped sideways and focused in on Arthur. The brush-off speech froze in his half-open mouth.

“Oh my God Arthur.” He pelted down the steps. There was a clatter above from the room above and a beautiful woman appeared on the balcony peering over the rioting flowers.

“Arthur. Grâce à Dieu.”

Eames tried to smile politely at her but he found it hard to concentrate as the bright flowers bubbled and swayed around her.

She shrieked, hand pressing against her mouth, “Dom, vite, vite. Oh, quick. Catch him.”

Eames scowled and hugged Arthur tighter. He’d dragged the small one across half of France, he wasn’t going to drop him at this stage. But there was an arm flung around his shoulders and a solid body taking his weight, and Eames _had_ dragged Arthur across half of France and he was so tired, fuzzy headed stiff and sore, even his bones hurt. He didn’t have to keep going anymore Arthur was home now.

His eyes rolled back in his head as the dark choked him.

 

Eames woke up to bright sunshine.

He blinked a couple of times trying to remember where he was and what he was doing. Warm yellow walls looked down on him. He was in a comfortable bed, a bolster had been carefully tucked behind his shoulders and head to prop him up slightly beneath the embroidered coverlet.

Memory came back in a rush and he sat up with a gasp, “Petit.”

The world swirled at his abrupt movement and he had to stop to gather himself before he could get out of bed. Where was Arthur?

The door opened and a beautiful woman walked in. She was wearing a smart morning dress with a plain tabard apron and carrying a duster. It took a moment for Eames to recognize her.

“You were the lady on the balcony?”

“Yes, I’m Mallorie Cobb. And you are Eames, Arthur said.”

Eames slumped back with relief, the small one had made it home. Then he shook himself out and told himself sternly to pull himself together. He straightened up as best he could and smiled his company smile, “Flight Lieutenant Farrier, ma’am. 666 Squadron.” He held out his hand. “I’m sorry for busting in on you like this.”

She laughed, “Don’t ma’am me, Lieutenant Farrier. Mallorie, please. And after your gallant rescue of Arthur how could you be anything but greatly welcome.”

“There was nothing gallant in it, ma’am – Mrs Cobb,” he corrected when she wagged the duster at him. “Nothing gallant in running out of fuel. Just stupidity.”

Mallorie looked at him for a moment, then shook her head decidedly, “All war is stupid, but sometimes, just sometimes there’s gallantry too.” She leant forward and kissed him on the cheek, “Thank you for Arthur,” and then she kissed on the other cheek.

“Mrs Cobb, I’m not a well man.” He raised one hand limply to his head as if he was overcome by the gesture, which hid how uncomfortable it had made him with its sweetness. He hadn’t really done anything, just dragged Arthur all about the place.

She laughed delightedly. “You are looking much better.”

“Thank you.”  He did feel better, his head was clear and his throat no longer ached, but he still felt worn to shreds and when he coughed it reverberated along his old bones.

Mallorie sniffed, “Not that is saying much. You still look half dead, but at least you’re no longer like a week old corpse.”

“You say such charming things.”

She fetched a cheap tin mirror and handed it to him. He winced. If this was better, he’d been in a bad way. His skin was drawn and dirty white, his eyes hollow and blackly bruised.

“We were worried you had inflammation of the lungs, but I think it was just a bad head cold together with exhaustion. You need a good week’s rest and feeding up but my husband and Arthur think we should get you out of Paris before the Germans arrive. The government have declared her a free city. They’re no longer even trying to defend her.”

“There are advantages to that,” said Farrier. “Fighting street to street can make a hell of a mess of a place.”

Spain and its devastated cities capered in the back of his mind and he shoved those memories down.

“Right, you were in Spain. Arthur said. He was too for a while.”

“Ah. Well the Boche licked us then, but we’ll send them to the mat next round.”

The lady huffed and aggressively dusted a shelf of knick-knacks, “I don’t like just surrendering. I think we should try. But the lack of Army or Government won’t stop us trying.”

“You mean to fight on then? You won’t evacuate.”

“No, we will stay, Paris is my home, and my husband…” she tailed off.

Farrier didn’t say anything. He had a very good idea of what Dominic Cobb might be involved in given he worked with Arthur, who risked his life to write down German troop movements. The Americans were not officially involved in the war but that did not mean they were not interested in what happened.

It was more of a chance than he thought he would take – it’s one thing to risk one’s self but quite another thing to risk one’s wife and child – but it was no affair of this, so he just smiled and said,

“I wish you good fortune in that.”

“Thank you Lieutenant Farrier.” She whisked the duster some more.

“Do you know when the German army will arrive?”

“No, it’s all confusion and rumor but Arthur’s says it won’t be long.”

“And what of Britain? Did we save enough men at Dunkirk to fight on?”

“Yes they did. The way they are talking you would think they had won a great victory. Did you want to see the Times?”

“You have the Times!”

“It is out of date by several days but my husband, he has,” she shrugged her shoulders elegantly, “oh so many contacts, you understand?”

“Yes I understand.” Cobb was obviously in extremely close communication with London to have a recent Times out here now. They must have flown in, ah, they flew in for Arthur’s reports, why would they do that, “Arthur’s reports were that critical?”

“He has a very good memory. He marked up some maps with the details. London thought it was worth the risk. Arthur wanted them to take you back, but you weren’t well enough for all that time half frozen in the cockpit. And the pilot wouldn’t risk staying longer. Here, let me fetch you the paper.”

The Times seemed positively cock-a-hoop over the shambles of Dunkirk, but Farrier could appreciate the need to keep people’s spirits up. It was easy to see that France would fall completely in a matter of weeks and then Hitler’s full attention would be turned on their small island.

Farrier groaned and laid the paper aside to slump back into his pillows. As soon as the headache from reading the fuzzy black print had faded he needed to get up and find out what arrangements were being made to get him back to his Squadron. He needed to be there as quickly as he could manage, they were perilously short of trained pilots, and the last week would only have made things worse.

He must, however, have dozed for a time because when he next became aware there was the loud click of the apartment’s front door opening and a young voice shouting,

“Uncle Arthur, Uncle Arthur.”

And Arthur’s voice saying, “Hello sweetheart. How’s my girl? Any news on Eames, Mal?”

“He woked up,” said the little girl, “but I didn’t get to see him because he fell asleep again and Maman said I wasn’t to disturb him. Not even a kiss to make him feel better.”

“Aw Pip-pip, but you know what I bet would make him feel better is if you drew him a picture of us to take back to Britain so he can remember us. Can you do a nice drawing for him, Pippa love.”

“Of course I can. Maman, you have to tell me how to spell properly,” she instructed with all the gravity of a judge.

“Pippa, what do we say?” Arthur corrected.

“Please Maman.”

“Of course, my little doe. Arthur, listen, he’s still very worn down. He needs another week in bed.”

“Unfortunately the Germans are putting a crimp in that plan.”

“Well we won’t turn him out. He can stay here as long as he needs.”

Arthur sighed, “I expect he has his own ideas. I’ll speak to him.” There was a knock on Farrier’s door, “Eames?”

“I’m awake,” said Farrier. “I was just reading the Times.”

Arthur poked his head around the door and looked down at the incriminating paper, “Damn. Mal, haven’t you burned that yet.”

“I thought Lieutenant Farrier would want to read it. And anyway, I want to keep it.”

“It’s too dangerous. Burn it.” Arthur picked up the paper, cocked his head at Farrier who nodded that he was finished with it, and returned to the kitchen. “Mal, I’m serious. There’s no chance we could argue our way out of having it in our possession. Burn it.”

“Fine,” she grumped.

Arthur reappeared in the doorway, “Sorry about that Lieutenant, but you understand the risk?”

“Absolutely. You should have just stuffed me into the plane from London, I wasn’t going to die from a bad cold.”

“I can do better than that for my gallant rescuer,” Arthur grinned up at him from under his lashes, and, oh, he had dimples that was positively unfair.

Farrier squelched the part of him that wanted to smile back, “I really don’t think now is the time.”

The dimples winked out of existence as if they had never been, “I am terribly sorry,” said Arthur, “I misunderstood. It won’t happen again.”

Mourning the loss, Farrier reached out with one hand, “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean, it’s only. I’m not…” he took a deep angry breath, “I am Lieutenant Farrier, I need to get back to my squadron as soon as maybe. I can’t,” he caught Arthur’s fine-boned hand in his, wistfully tracing his thumb across the soft skin of his wrist.

“I understand,” said Arthur, turning his hand so he could stroke across Eames’ knuckles, “I understand. We can wait for a better time.”

“Yes,” said Eames, grasping eagerly at the absurdity, “A better time. I’ll take you to the Ritz. We’ll drink champagne and eat oysters.”

“Well, if you _need_ oysters,” said Arthur, the dimples were back and his eyes were sparkling with mischief.

It took Eames a moment to get it, and then, “oh you little bastard, no I do not _need_ oysters, thank you all the same.”

“If you say not,” Arthur made his eyes big and doubtful even as he tried not to laugh.

“Oh you, if I wasn’t burnt to the socket, I’d make you eat those words.”

“You’re welcome to try any time,” said Arthur saucily.

“I’ll keep hoping,” said Eames. Then he realized he was still holding Arthur’s hand and dropped it in confusion.

“A better time,” agreed Arthur. Then he shook his head, “Oh damnit, I’ll be sensible in a minute. You can give me a minute, can’t you Eames?”

“Anything,” said Eames stupidly, and then Arthur was kissing him. It was sweet and hot and wet. Arthur’s sharp body pressed hard against his.

Finally Arthur pulled back just enough that they could share each other’s breath, “You could stay, you know,” he said quietly and without hope, “there’d be no shame in it. We could use a reliable man who can speak French as well as you can.”

“Oh heart’s darling, I wish I could.” Because Eames would stay with fierce beautiful Arthur, all determination and dimples. “But they need me back in England. They need every pilot they can lay their hands on to beat the Germans back. I can’t stay.”

“Ah Eames.” Arthur kissed him once on the mouth then pulled back rub their cheeks together.

“Farrier,” he corrected though his heart hurt to do so.

“Farrier,” agreed Arthur. He sat up, packing away his longing until there was only a cheerful camaraderie. “I’ve found some papers for you and managed to get you a train ticket. If you can make it to Marseilles you should be able to find a ship. Gibraltar is still free. I have confidence you’ll manage”

“I’ll manage,” Farrier agreed. The port would be chaos, it would be easy enough to slip through.

“Be careful.”

“I’m not the one risking an appointment with the firing squad. What will you be doing?”

“If you’re not staying I can hardly tell you,” Arthur sniped meanly, then, “Fuck sorry, I expect you have some idea anyway. We only have a few days grace to get things set up before occupation begins in earnest. There’s a lot of things to be done.” His face worked briefly, “I wasn’t spinning you a line, you know, we could put you to good use.”

Farrier sighed, “I’m needed back in Britain, that wasn’t a line either. We have more planes than pilots, and precious few planes at that.”

Arthur huffed.

There was a knock as the door opened and Mallorie looked in on them.

“Boys, are you behaving?”

If Farrier hadn’t completely lost the ability to read people then she was actually disappointed she hadn’t caught them in a compromising position. He couldn’t help raising one eyebrow at Arthur in enquiry.

“Oh yes,” said Arthur, “Mal’s an incurable romantic. She was most disappointed in you getting sick at just the wrong the moment.”

“And who was the one doing all the hard work? Why are you so chirpy anyway? Anyone would think you’d never been ill.”

“We were very worried for him when you first arrived,” said Mallorie. “He was burning up and we could barely get any water down him. We didn’t dare risk a doctor, so we wrapped him in wet sheets and by the Grace of God, his fever broke early that morning.”

“I woke up feeling perfectly well,” said Arthur. “A little soup and I was ready to go.”

Farrier groaned. “You could at least look apologetic about it with me lying here feeling like I’m on the losing end of six rounds.”

“Sorry,” said Arthur, still failing miserably at looking apologetic.

The door flew open and a small blonde girl burst in, “Maman you’ve been ages.” She stared at Farrier with frank interest.

“Hello Mr Eames.”

“Pippa,” Arthur started to correct her. Farrier shook his head,

“Better not. She’s too young to understand. If she’s tells anyone then better Eames, a disreputable Irish adventurer, than..” Flight Lieutenant Farrier.

Arthur nodded seriously. Mallorie clutched after her daughter, her face broken open, as if she had only just realized the invasion affected Philippa too.

“Hello Mademoiselle Philippa.” said Farrier, as he watched behind her bright shining face as Arthur gathered the shaking Mallorie close, “Your Uncle Arthur told you all about you.”

“He told me how you were very sick so he brought you home so you’d get better. Are you better?”

“Mostly,” said Farrier, amused at how Uncle Arthur had become the heroic rescuer.

“I drew a picture for you.”

“That’s very kind of you.” He took it gravely.

“See, there’s me, and Daddy, and Maman, and Uncle Arthur, and you in bed, and it says, Get Well Sooon,” she sounded out the words carefully.

“That’s lovely,” said Farrier, “thank you so much sweetheart.”

Behind her Mallorie had recovered her composure and she said, “Come on now Pippa. We have to go make sandwiches for Mr Eames to take on his journey.”

“Can he have cake too?” Philippa asked as they walked out the room.

“Of course.”

“Can I have cake?”

“We’ll see.”

Farrier carefully folded up the picture and tucked it in his pocket so he wouldn’t have to look at Arthur.

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur. “But you should go to the station as quickly as possible. Nobody has any idea which train will be the last train.”

“I know. And you can’t come with me.”

“Eames.”

“You can’t. It’s a stupid risk to take for something as foolish as sentiment.”

Arthur sighed. “I know.”

“Now help me get up.” He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, taking a second for the dizziness to fade. “Last time I was standing I fell flat on my face.”

“Not true,” said Arthur. “Dom caught you, like you were a fainting Victorian heroine.”

“I was not,” said Farrier, although his indignation was somewhat ruined when he swayed on his feet. Arthur looped an arm around his waist to hold him steady.

“I should come with you. Nobody will care.”

“Don’t be foolish. I’m not having you tagged as suspicious because you’re with me. You’re all taking enough of a risk staying behind as it is. Yes the Germans are likely to leave you alone because you’re Americans, but who knows. It could be the opposite.”

Arthur’s head sank in defeat. “I’ll get your jacket and coat.”

“That is not my jacket,” said Farrier. “Or my coat.”

“They’re Dom’s. Your trousers are too. Mallorie turned the hems up. The jacket should fit you, but the sleeves might be a bit long.”

“I can make it work.” He shivered as Arthur helped him into the jacket, hands smoothing across the muscle of his arms, and then the trench coat. Arthur straightened the lapels, then leaned forward and kissed him right on the mouth.

“Be safe Eames.”

“You too, Petit.”

Arthur sighed and leaned against him for a long moment, and he focused on his warmth, and the smell of sunshine his hair and the hard line of his body pressed against him.

Finally Farrier pushed Arthur lightly away from him, “I have to go.”

“A better time,” said Arthur.

Eames lied every day to everybody, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie to Arthur, so he just kissed the tips of his fingers and pressed them to Arthur’s cheek,

“Take care of yourself.” He stepped back towards the door.

“I think I’ll stay here for a bit,” said Arthur, his hands fumbling through the air as if searching for something. “This is usually my room anyhow.”

Farrier nearly asked him where he’d been sleeping while his bed had been stolen, but that wasn’t any of his business now.

Arthur sat down on the bed and his ran hands through his hair.

Farrier watched the small slumped figure, but there wasn’t anything he could say or do, so he turned away to go and fake an interest in sandwiches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assis! – Sit!  
> Je garde espoir – I keep hoping  
> Grâce à Dieu – Thank god  
> Vite, vite – quick, quick
> 
> Oh and oysters are considered to be an aphrodisiac, as well as ridiculously extravagant


	5. Epilogue

Epilogue

Collins was telling the story of Farrier again. He knew the old hands in the squadron considered him a positive bore on the subject but there were always new pups fresh out of training college and Collins wanted them to know, he wanted somebody to remember Farrier’s heroics even after he himself inevitably got shot down. Farrier deserved that at least.

The pups were listening patiently enough, when somebody behind him said,

“Oh good heavens Collins, why are you boring them rigid with that old pap?”

Collins’ brain stalled out because that sounded like – He span around, and it was. Standing there, large as life, was Farrier.

“Farrier! Oh my God, it’s good to see you old chap.” He flung his arms around him and thumped him on the back. “What are you doing here? What happened?”

“Eh,” said Farrier shrugging his shoulders. “There didn’t seem to be much else going on.”

“So you didn’t run out of petrol defending the ships and get forced to land in France?” demanded one of the pups.

“Is that what he’s been telling you?” Farrier raised his eyebrows.

Collins rolled his eyes. Why was Farrier always so difficult.

“Yes. Was he not telling the truth?”

“Well I certainly ran out of fuel. Landed right there on the beach.”

“So what happened?” Collins demanded impatiently, “I thought for sure the Germans had you.”

“Well,” Farrier grinned suddenly, a quick-silver flash of amusement that made him look quite different, “I ran into a pretty little mam’zelle.”

“Of course you did,” Collins shook his head in amusement.

“She was hiding from the Germans too, trying to get to Paris. Now my grandmother was French,” he explained to the pups, “and school holidays were all French, so I speak the lingo pretty well, and I managed to persuade her to help me and we hid from the Germans together,” He grinned, “Maybe kissed a little in the moonlight. Her people were in Paris so we kept moving and hiding until we made it there.”

“What happened then?”

“Well they were glad to see her and they fixed me up with some papers to get me out the country. And then we said goodbye.” Farrier stopped there, as if there was nothing else to say.

Collins sighed, “I meant how did you get back home from Paris.”

“Oh,” Farrier shrugged his shoulder as if that part of the story was completely uninteresting, “Caught the train to Marseilles, managed to find a Captain willing to give me a ride to Gibraltar, got sunk by a U-Boat, got picked up by another ship, which turned out to be German, but I convinced them I was French so they put me back down in Marseilles again, managed to find another ship, got to Algiers. Nearly got arrested as a smuggler. Found another ship, got to Gibraltar. Reported in. Nearly got arrested for dereliction of duty. Got put on another boat. Landed in Portsmouth and caught the train over.”

Collins briefly hid his face in hands because only Farrier could make such an obviously fraught journey sound so confoundedly flat. The man had fought in Spain, which was mayhem by anyone’s standards, but to hear him tell it the whole affair was nothing more than a Sunday stroll. You had to get him drunk to hear the real stories – properly drunk, not the way he pretended to be drunk at mess dinners – then the man would have the whole room in stitches with his ridiculous tales. Collins would have to round up some of the old hands and take Farrier drinking and find out what actually happened.

For now he just said, “Rather boring all in all,” and tried not to laugh at the pups’ goggle-eyed looks.

“Exactly,” sighed Farrier as if the entire world had let him down.

The Wing Commander showed up then to reintroduce the prodigal and confirm his story. Apparently Farrier was also due some sort of commendation for the information he brought back from Algeria but the brass hats were still arguing about exactly what since he hadn’t been in uniform at the time. He was also presented with the commendation he’d received in absentia after Collins’ reported on his actions at Dunkirk.

Farrier of course just rubbed the back of his neck and looked embarrassed about the whole thing.

Later after they’d gone out for celebratory drinks, and Farrier had been coaxed into telling the story of smuggling three prize race horses into Algeria and having to talk to them non-stop to keep them calm when a storm hit the ship and they nearly sank, and everyone was deep drunk enough to be thinking about heading back, Collins leaned across the table and asked,

“Was she was very pretty then, your mam’zelle?”

“C’est le plus bel que j’aie jamais vu,” said Farrier. “So-so, I guess, I thought so at any rate.”

“You might see her again,” Collins offered, uncomfortable and awkward, wishing he hadn’t brought the subject up. “You know, after the war.”

He laughed harshly. “It was a war affair, Collins, we probably wouldn’t even recognize each other. Mais je garde espoir parce que qu’y a-t-il d’autre.”

“Don’t worry old chap, we’ll find you another girl.”

Farrier’s face shook, and for a moment a horrified Collins thought he was about to cry, then Farrier was laughing so hard, he was choking and fell off his chair to slide right under the table.

They were thrown out the pub, Farrier sang _Puttin’ on the Ritz_ all the way back.

A week later the Germans started coming in earnest and didn’t stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C’est le plus bel que j’aie jamais vu – the most beautiful (man) I’ve ever seen  
> Mais je garde espoir parce que qu’y a-t-il d’autre – but I keep hoping, because what else is there


End file.
